


Person of Interest

by luna_plath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Crimes & Criminals, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mystery, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Canon, Romance, Thriller, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark wizards target Ginny Weasley, author and former Quidditch star, for writing a book on anti-pureblood ideas. When she is attacked in her own home and nearly killed it falls to auror Harry Potter to protect her</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of my entry for harry_submits. In this universe Harry and Ginny never dated and are only acquaintances. The events in CoS still happened but they were never close during Harry and Ron’s adolescence. I hope the spirit of the quote is evident in this piece, even though I didn’t incorporate it directly. This story doesn’t feature literal BDSM but dominance and submission do play a role in the characters personalities, and while there is no outright (meaning consummated) dub-con or non-con, it does play a role in the fic. Thanks to A for beta reading this piece!

_The Daily Prophet, Arts and Entertainment section, page 4—_

> “A Culture of Separation” Draws Justified Attention to Public Issues, Stirs Up Controversy Relating to Prominent Pureblood Circles
> 
> By Zacharias Smith  
>  _Staff Writer_
> 
> Pureblood author Ginevra Weasley’s recent book “A Culture of Separation” detailing the long-term health, societal, and psychological effects of living in a closed wizarding society has topped the best-seller list for the seventh consecutive week. Readers are intrigued that such a publication would come from a pureblood witch herself—something this reporter thinks is part of the work’s allure to readers.
> 
> In a recent statement Weasley said that she does not intend to condemn the pureblood way of life, merely to establish more credibility to muggleborns and half bloods trying to fit into our current “unnecessarily hostile” wizarding society.
> 
> Some critics have argued that Weasley is merely rehashing old issues and that our current social climate is more than welcome to those of mixed wizarding heritage. However, with the recent stalemate in the Wizengamot regarding equal rights to half-breeds (see GRANGER, pg 12), it begs the question of how far we have really come as a society since the end of the second Dark War.
> 
> “Culture” includes several chapters worth of interviews from purebloods, half bloods, and muggleborns alike, including such noteworthy figures as Augusta Longbottom and Narcissa Malfoy. Weasley spent two and half years writing “Culture”, with at least half of that time devoted to gathering research, conducting interviews, and compiling statistics about magical verses muggle health. Despite the academic nature of the topic many readers have described Weasley’s writing as humorous, provocative, and personal.
> 
> The initial draft of “Culture” was an opinion piece that ran in the Prophet itself nearly three years ago. The public response to Weasley’s article was enormous, prompting the witch to further look into the issue. “That’s what made me consider doing further research,” Weasley said. “People already had plenty to say. It was just a matter of writing it down.”
> 
> In a recent article for Witch Weekly, staff writer Lavender McClaggen claimed that she wouldn’t be surprised if “Culture” became “the most read work of non-fiction this year. There hasn’t been such an enthusiastic response in the genre since ‘The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.’”
> 
> While reader response to Weasley’s work has been largely positive, there is a significant population (composed mostly of pureblood witches and wizards) who have taken great offence to “Culture.” It is unclear at the current time if any reactionary works will be published in response to Weasley’s book, but this reporter wouldn’t be surprised if there were some kind of public response from prominent pureblood supporters.

Alone in her kitchen, Ginny sipped her morning tea and frowned at the article she had just read. As a former sports writer she hadn’t spent that much time around Smith despite working for the same paper, but she had heard him enough during staff meetings to understand the scope of his “this reporter” comments. 

It was no secret that the public was intrigued by her background, but the Weasleys hardly qualified as a traditional pureblood family. His less kindly coworkers at the ministry knew her father as a “muggle lover” and her brother was best mates with Harry Potter, the champion of muggleborns and half bloods, for Merlin’s sake.

But it was the second “this reporter” that got her thinking, specifically the phrase “some kind of public response from prominent pureblood supporters.” Did Smith know something she didn’t? So far, no formal reply had been forthcoming from prominent pureblood groups and committees, and there had been even less of an informal response from pureblood readers. Largely, the response to her book had been overwhelmingly positive, but Ginny didn’t take that fact at face value. She found the silence from influential businessmen like Blaise Zabini or fellow authors such as Astoria Greengrass discomforting.

But really, Astoria was a poet, or what she called a “performance artist”, and unlikely to respond to Ginny’s book, because then she would’ve actually have to read it.

Stop being paranoid, she scolded herself. The blame rested partially with Ron, who had put it into her head that she needed to be more careful, if not with what she wrote then at least with how she protected herself.

While the rest of her family had been more than proud of what she’d accomplished, her closest brother had worn a neutral expression through every celebratory dinner or favorable discussion. When she had confronted him about it he had been unusually honest with her, giving Ginny the impression that he was doing his best to sound like a real auror.

“Things aren’t totally resolved with Voldemort’s supporters,” he’d warned, more of the brave companion to Harry Potter than her silly older brother in that moment.

“You need to be careful. Just because no one’s given you grief for this yet doesn’t mean they won’t eventually.”

At the time she’d scoffed, rolled her eyes and told him that he should stop hanging out with traumatized war heroes. Ron had not found her amusing.

But now she was thinking that perhaps she hadn’t given him enough credit. She’d been in the DA during its active years and a serious thorn in Snape’s side while he’d been Headmaster, but she was no auror. She was frightened at some of the stories Ron had indifferently shared in the past, wondering how on earth he could be so blasé when it came to his own life.

“It’s my job,” he’d reminded, smiling at her naiveté.

Ginny had not found him amusing.

Since she worked from home her transition from leisurely reading the morning paper to working wasn’t very abrupt, but she already had a few ideas to add to her list of possible long-term projects. Writing about pureblood bias had been challenging and exactly the kind of thing to get her work noticed—not that gaining notoriety had been her aim, but the jump from journalism to academic writing was a long one, and without a strong, captivating book she would have been an unlikely candidate for publication.

After several hours of work on a feature piece for _Quidditch International_ she spelled some errant ink from her fingers, changed into an autumn cloak, and grabbed her bag in preparation to apparate to Alicia Spinnet’s house in Cornwall.

It was a perfectly normal morning with nothing to unsettle her, nothing besides the shadow of a grumble from Zacharias Smith and the increasing paranoia from her brother.

\----

By the time she got around to leaving Alicia’s it was after dark and much later than she had planned on staying. Originally, Ginny had visited to conduct an interview for her article, but after she’d gotten all the material she needed she had put away her reporter’s quill and talked with her friend for a good part of the afternoon. Alicia had asked her to stay for dinner but Ginny didn’t want to overstay her welcome.

Besides, after spending more time in Cornwall than she’d planned she would have to work on her article a bit more once she got home so the piece wouldn’t get behind. Freelance journalism was still how she made her living, and the editors at _Quidditch International_ wouldn’t appreciate a late submission, best selling author or not.

Ginny apparated into her unlit front room, wand in hand. As soon as she exhaled from the effort of the spell she knew something was wrong. A loud crash reverberated through the house, and before she could light the room or dart forward to investigate the blade of a knife was pressed against her throat.

“Drop your wand,” said her (definitely male) attacker. Heavy, approaching footsteps sounded from the direction of her office, along with a low string of curses.

She gulped in a breath of air and tried to think, but somehow her lungs felt like they had shrunk to half their usual size.

“ _I said drop your wand!_ ”

The thin wooden stick fell from her hands as a streak of hot, sticky blood inched down her neck, the metallic scent of iron flooding her senses. Clenching her teeth, Ginny attempted to kick-start her brain into action. _THINK—don’t just stand there, come up with something._

The wand of one of the intruders sparked to life, casting a cold, limited sphere of light into the corner of the room. It gave everything a silvery tint, drawing long shadows across the man’s face.

“Bring her over here,” he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of her bedroom.

Darting her eyes back and forth, she tried to get a good look at the man who seemed to be giving the orders. He was much taller than her, closer to Ron’s height, with ashen blond hair and lean forearms.

The man behind her wrestled her wrists behind her back, clutching them in one of his large, iron-like fists. He propelled her forward and she was careful not to fidget too much; with the knife still pressed to her throat she’d cut herself to pieces if she tried to bolt for freedom.

Relocating to the bedroom had exactly the kind of effect on her that she guessed they were intending. It sent the message loud and clear: you will not get out of this in one piece, if at all. She’d read about wizards who used magic to rape, torture, and kill their victims; the detached, clinical images of crime scenes flashed through her mind.

Just as the door to her bedroom clicked shut she was shoved forward, the blade retreating from her throat. The rush of air against her neck was painful, highlighting the amount of blood that was seeping down her chest and staining her shirt. However, the cut was shallow and she could still breath properly. She distantly hoped the knife wasn’t cursed.

“Ginevra Weasley,” the blond man said, stalking toward her. “But your friends call you Ginny, is that right?”

He was subtly mocking her, fixing her with a cold, pale stare. “Answer me,” he threatened, pointing his wand directly at her chest.

“Yes, that’s my name. But you already knew that.”

Just a small arch in his eyebrows, but she continued.

“You’re here to kill me.”

“She’s a smart one,” he said, directing it to the other man in the room. Ginny forced down a sharp streak of anger.

“Astute of you, Ginny. I’m sure you also know why.”

His features seemed to darken, and the other man, whom she hadn’t seen face-to-face, came around to join his leader.

“Yes.”

“Good. That’ll make this all the easier, then.”

He raised his wand in a slashing motion, and the sound of ripping fabric filled her ears. The cool rush of air against her breasts sent her mind reeling—this was truly happening, these men were going to rape and kill her—

“Your turn,” he said, looking to the younger man beside him.

He had curly hair that was a neutral brown, and quick, fast moving eyes. His wand wasn’t as steady as the blond next to him, she noticed.

“Take your clothes off,” he instructed. By “clothes” she assumed he meant the rags that now hung around her neck and shoulders. Ginny shed what used to be garments but stopped when he instructed her to keep her skirt on, but loose her knickers. She complied.

She looked away as he started rubbing the heel of his hand against his crotch, the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. Before fear could further cloud her judgment she quickly decided on a plan.

 _I lived with Tom Riddle under my pillow for a year. I refuse to die at the hands of wannabe Death Eaters_ , she thought, collecting herself as the man with the knife approached her.

“It’s a shame you’re a professional bitch, seeing as you’re so good looking,” he said, yanking her towards him by her shoulders and shoving her onto the bed.

He sheathed the knife and attached it to his belt, pointing his wand in her direction and whispering an incantation she’d never heard before. Immediately, sharp pinpricks of blood welled up between her breasts, beading along a clean line and weeping slowly across her skin.

“Ah,” she softly cried, her hands shaking with the pain. The cut had gone much deeper than the one on her throat.

“Shut up, slag,” he hissed, increasing the friction of his hand against the front of his trousers. “Pureblood magic not good enough for you?”

He cast the spell a few more times, aiming it at the insides of her thighs and dangerously close to her pubic area.

Ginny focused on her breathing, watching the young man in front of her with unnatural detachment. After what felt like ages he undid his belt buckle and slid his trousers past his hips just so, releasing himself and crouching toward her.

As he was leaning over her prone body, she aimed a sharp, deliberate kick between his legs, making a desperate grab for the wand in his loose grip.

It all happened so quickly after that. She had barely wrangled the wand away from her almost-rapist before the other man fired a spell at her. Ginny dodged it and fired the worst spell she knew, bar the unforgivables, and aimed it at her attacker.

“ _Sectumsempra!_ ” she roared, making a large slashing motion that was sure to encompass his entire upper body.

She hit her mark.

The second man tried to wrestle her to the floor but before he could make much progress she fired a reducto curse at nearly point blank range, but she wasn’t fast enough. In the moment before the curse made its impact he plunged the hand knife into the side of her thigh.

Blinded by pain, Ginny gripped the man’s wand and focused all of her remaining energy on her next spell. She disappeared in a crack of apparation.


	2. Chapter 2

_The auror office in the Ministry of Magic, the dispatch center in the auror office...the dispatch center..._

Ginny mentally repeated her destination to herself, willing her magic to take her to safety. Ron had always told her to go straight to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if she were ever attacked—St. Mungo’s was the first place she’d be expected to go, and while there were plenty of hitwizards at the hospital to keep things secure, it was in her best interest to go directly to the Ministry if she was in serious danger.

However, when she arrived in the marble hallway in front of the twenty-four hour desk it was difficult for her to remain conscious, let alone deliver a report.

She was wearing a skirt and nothing else, with a knife in the side of her leg and wide streaks of blood coloring her entire body. Luckily, she only had to take a few steps before the auror on night duty realized she was there.

The room began to swim before her eyes; she really was quite exhausted. It took her a moment to register the shocked expression of the tall, dark-haired man who’d rushed toward her.

“Harry,” she said, teetering on her own two feet. “I think I’m going to faint.”

\----

“… decoy wands. Illegal potions too, from what Neville said. No, we’ll just have to ask her when she wakes up, although I’m sure they could have been polyjuiced.”

“It had to have been planned, although I wonder if they were expecting her to arrive later in the evening? It’s looking like the protective spells they put up were only halfway done.”

“It’s possible. But we can probably get better answers to everything if we ask Ginny. It looks like she’s waking up.”

Blinking her eyes, she shifted under the covers. “You caught me,” Ginny slurred, her limbs oddly weighed down.

“Alright, Gin?” Ron asked, sitting with his forearms on his knees.

“Sleepy.”

“They gave you an analgesic draught before they fixed you up. It should be wearing off soon,” Harry explained.

He was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Examining herself, Ginny found that she was dressed in a man’s Oxford shirt that was far too large in the sleeves and shoulders.

Sitting up from one of the spare beds in the DMLE’s Infirmary, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, dried blood staining her fingers.

“You saw me naked,” she said, her brown eyes widening.

Apparently Harry hadn’t been expecting her to mention it. “We can just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Good.”

Ron cleared his throat. “I’m really glad you’re okay, but we need to ask you a few questions. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

“Okay,” she readjusted herself against the pillows, feeling more clear-headed by the second. “There were two men, and they were definitely going to kill me. Well, one of them was going to do the killing and I think the other was just there to hurt me beforehand. I knew they were there the second I got home.”

Perhaps she wasn’t as recovered as she thought. Thankfully, Ron ignored her rambling and subtly redirected her to the beginning of the story. “Where were you before you came home?”

“Alicia Spinnet’s house in Cornwall.”

A charmed quill, similar to the kind she used for reporting, was recording their conversation.

“Can you tell me what time you left for Alicia’s and what time you came home?”

Ginny answered all of Ron’s questions, trying to give the most detailed information possible in the hopes that it would help their investigation. There were a few times when Harry interjected, asking more specific questions, but for the most part her brother did the talking. She tried not to be embarrassed when she had to explain her attacker’s sexual behavior, sharing the details in a detached, emotionless voice. If Ron found the information upsetting he hid it well—for her benefit, she assumed.

As the interview came to a close Harry probed her with one further question, curiosity etched in his features.

“When you said you knew they were there to kill you—what made you think that? How did you know?”

“When I told the blond one I knew why they’d come for me?”

“Yes.”

Biting her lip, she thought for a moment before answering. “Something funny that I read in the paper. Zacharias Smith—do you remember him?—he wrote an article about my book. At the end he said something about a ‘public response from prominent pureblood supporters,’ but the thing is that there hasn’t been _any_ response from purebloods. Not a word. It’s probably not substantial enough to go off of, but it made me wonder if Smith knew something he wasn’t telling.”

Ron’s eyebrows rose to a dangerous height, crinkling his forehead. “Now _that’s_ interesting.”

“We’ll look into it,” Harry said. Ginny could practically hear the wheels in his brain turning on that bit of information.

Harry and Ron stood, helping Ginny onto her feet. She still didn’t have any shoes, she noticed.

“You’ll be staying with Harry,” Ron said, and before she could form a question he went cross.

“Don’t,” he warned. “It’s not safe for you to go home, at least not now. And they’ll be expecting you to stay with family—Harry’s safer.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she neutrally replied. “But I was going to ask if you managed to find my wand. I don’t like the idea of using this one,” Ginny said, gingerly holding the decoy wand that had been left on the bedside table.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Ron said sheepishly, fishing her own spruce wand out of his pocket.

“Thanks.”

She handed her attacker’s wand over and followed Harry out of the Infirmary, blinking against the unyielding lights.

“C’mon,” Harry said, taking her arm. She shivered as a chill passed through her.

“You look dead tired. Lets get you home.”

\----

It had been ages since she’d been to Grimmauld Place, not since it had served as Headquarters for the Order, and the dark, uninviting house from her memories had changed quite a bit in the passing years.

Harry had put a lot of work into the interior, from what she could tell. Gone were the dust, cobwebs, and general air of disrepair that had been present when they were teenagers. As she followed Harry up the wallpapered stairwell it struck her that he had left the spirit of the house intact—the plaques of headless elves had been removed, but the hardwood ebony floors and high, punched tin ceilings maintained the feeling of old magical wealth. Number 12 had been restored, not erased.

“You can have whatever bedroom you like,” he said, leaning against the railing off the second floor landing. “I’m upstairs—the rooms are a bit smaller, but they let in more light.”

“Thanks,” Ginny replied, a mixture of tired and moody. “I think I’ll be fine here.”

Harry didn’t react to her sour tone; she resented him for his self-control. “See you in the morning, then. If you need anything I’m the second door on the left.”

He didn’t even say goodnight. _At least I know things have gone back to normal_ , she thought, opening the door to the room Fred and George had occupied the last time they’d stayed here.

The old twin beds had been replaced with a double bed with an ornate headboard; long, sheer curtains hung over the single window. Ginny only had a few items of clothing and a small bag of toiletries that Neville had thought to get from her house. She set them inside the armoire and pulled off her tattered black skirt. It would have to be thrown out. Not even magic could erase the memory of her attacker telling her to keep it on while he sliced her to ribbons and touched himself.

She crawled into bed in her knickers and Harry’s now rumpled Oxford, loosing herself in the clean smell of the bed sheets. The longer she stayed still the harder it was to breath, her mind overwhelmed by the sound of Harry pacing above her bedroom.

 _I was almost raped and killed_ , she thought, the idea like a thunderclap in her head. _And now I’m stuck being watched over like a helpless maiden, by Harry Potter, of all people._

Bitterness dripped through her. After experiencing nearly the same thing at the hands of Tom Riddle when she’d been only eleven years old she had grown to value her freedom and independence. When Harry had started the DA at school she had resolved herself to learn every spell, practice every curse, protect herself against every threat. Ginny had never expected to be made a victim again.

She’d tried so hard.

Upstairs, she finally heard Harry stop pacing and get into bed.

\----

“How’d you sleep?”

Ginny looked up from her breakfast, meeting Harry’s eyes across the table. “Fine. I took some of the Dreamless Sleep potion they gave me at the infirmary.”

He nodded and looked back at the file in front of him, which she assumed related to her case. She resisted the urge to ask if he had any news—it was only the morning after the attack, even the aruror department was unlikely to have results that quickly.

But her own obtrusive curiosity got the better of her. Rising slightly from her chair, she tried to subtlety read the upside-down hand-written text. Squinting, she resolved to get her eyes checked soon, because it was really quite difficult—

“Stop doing that,” Harry said, not looking up.

Moodily, she leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms, suddenly not hungry.

“Sorry.”

The ghost of a smirk came across his face. It made her want to hit him. “It’s just the deposition you gave last night. I’m re-reading it to make sure I didn’t miss anything, but I’m not allowed to let you see it even if you’re the one who gave us the information.”

“That’s silly,” she said, taking a sip from her mug of black coffee.

Harry shrugged, glancing back up at her with his too green eyes. “Write an article about it if you think it’s so horrible. Maybe then they’ll change the law.”

His tone had been neutral—no, superior, as if he didn’t take her seriously. If anything could get to her it was being treated like her input wasn’t legitimate. Ginny gritted her teeth and went back to her eggs and bacon, dully prodding her food.

Instead of taking the bait and firing back a reply, she finished her coffee and got up from the kitchen table without another word. She could feel Harry watching her as she crossed the room, a sort of heaviness in the air that wasn’t just from the heat of the fire in the grate.

 _Serves him right_ , she thought, shutting the door behind her.

Ginny went up to the library in search of parchment and a quill—Neville hadn’t thought to include any of her work papers—exploring the house along the way. She still thought of it as old and spooky, but instead of being old and spooky and decrepit it was old and spooky and well kept.

She hadn’t seen a single trace of a house elf since she’d arrived. Ginny absently wondered if Harry did all the cleaning himself, or if he had a maid or a girlfriend do it for him.

The library, too, had been brought back to what it must have looked like before it had fallen into disrepair. The bookshelves that had once held exclusively dark spell books now featured a decent selection. Again, she wondered if Harry had picked all these books out himself or if he had someone (possibly Hermione) get them. He’d never seemed like the type to enjoy reading, but once she came across a whole case of texts on defense she grudgingly admitted that they were most likely his.

Resolving not to underestimate him in the future, Ginny tried not to be surprised when she looked through the writing desk in the corner to get a quill, ink, and parchment, only to find a stack of papers that appeared to be a manuscript. Part of her was surprised he even used the writing desk, let alone wrote, but she was too curious to be judgmental.

 _Blood Magic_ , the title said. Her curiosity rapidly shifted to shock.

From what she remembered from potions (which wasn’t much, considering it wasn’t exactly her best subject) blood magic was involved in the most vile and horrific of spells. Human blood was never used in any of the potions taught at Hogwarts, and although a remote part of her brain was aware that human blood could be used in other forms of magic she couldn’t begin to contemplate how.

Harry, it seemed, knew exactly how.

Ginny took her parchment and backed away. If she wasn’t even allowed to see her own file there was no way she’d be allowed to read the papers that were so neatly stacked on the corner of his desk. She felt guilty just for reading the title.

Feeling like something was about to jump out and scare her for being nosy, she took a seat in front of the unlit fire and started brainstorming for her next project. The slate blue walls looked cold, and maybe it was just her Gryffindor sensibilities, but she felt that Number 12 must be an odd place to live. It was so empty compared to her memories of the summer they’d stayed here—how could he stand it?

But perhaps it didn’t feel that way to Harry. With a start, Ginny realized that this was probably the only bit of Sirius he had left. The thought seemed to put her question into perspective, letting her forget about Harry and his strangeness for several hours.

After a lot of unsuccessful scribbling, she put her materials down and stretched. The clock on the mantelpiece said it was approaching noon, giving her the perfect excuse for a break.

Ginny descended the stairs and paused just before opening the door to the kitchen. She could hear voices, one of them definitely Harry’s, and after a moment she realized the other speaker was Ron.

“So where’s she been all day?”

“Upstairs working. I think I hacked her off at breakfast.”

She could almost hear the scowl in Ron’s voice. “How? What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, again in that neutral tone she’d come to think of as insubordinate. “She just seems quiet, that’s all. Although it could just be a product of her current circumstances.”

That seemed to settle her brother quite well. Ginny snorted as Ron quickly backed down. “Right. I’ll be back later once we’ve got more news. Try not to terrorize each other too much.”

Harry said something in reply but it was obscured by the sound of her brother clamoring into the fireplace. They said goodbye and she held her breath, waiting for Harry to come storming over and open the door to find her standing behind it. Nothing happened. Ginny stood for a moment longer and decided that he wasn’t as paranoid as she’d thought.

She entered the kitchen and set about making a pot of tea. After clearing his work things off the table he started working on lunch, settling her question of whether or not he had a house elf.

“Did you get much work done?” he asked, laying cold cuts of roast beef on slices of rye bread.

“Not really,” she confessed, making her own sandwich. “I haven’t been able to concentrate.”

“That’s to be expected,” he said in what she guessed was a sympathetic tone.

He set out cuts of cheese, lettuce, and two crisp apples from the larder. After relocating to the table they ate in silence.

Harry seemed to be thinking, his gaze unfocused, and Ginny took the opportunity to study him more closely than she’d normally be comfortable with. There was a bit of shadow along the edge of his jaw but no signs of a goatee or beard, just that wild, too long hair that curled in places and stuck out in others. She’d often wondered if it was as thick as it looked, but she’d never gotten the courage to find out. His skin was a little less pale than she remembered from their teenage years, but not by much. Ron had mentioned that the two of them were sometimes required to help train the new recruits, which demanded outdoor involvement.

She felt a flush rise in her cheeks at her next thought, which involved his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was rather good looking, she decided, much more promising than his younger lanky frame had suggested.

When her attackers had been taunting her about her body and about the way that real pureblood men liked to have women, her mind had flown to her last boyfriend—Theodore Nott—and the last time he’d ever slept with her. Theo was what her mother called an “artsy type” and not at all what her brothers had wanted for her. Ginny had been his first real girlfriend out of school, and he had taken their relationship much more seriously than she had.

She’d liked him quite a bit, but not enough to stick around very long once she lost interest. Theo was a very submissive person, and it was far too easy for her to fall into the role of the dominant woman. Not that she minded that kind of relationship, but it was horribly boring once the other person surrendered.

That had been her intention last night—that perhaps if she were meek enough they would tire of her or underestimate her magical abilities. It had worked, to a degree, but now more so than ever she hated the idea of being under another wizard’s thumb.

Harry refilled his tea and did the same for her. She watched his bum as he got up to fetch the kettle, daring him to catch her.

He didn’t notice.

“Will I be able to go home any time soon?” she asked, staring into the cup of tea he’d placed in front of her.

“I can’t really say at the moment,” Harry answered, trying not to get her hopes up. “It all depends on how the investigation goes. If we catch the people who tried to harm you straight away or if we don’t hear anything else from them for a significant amount of time then you’ll be able to leave, but for right now it’s safer if you stay here.”

Ginny nodded, resigning herself to the fact that she may not be home for a long while. Somehow the idea that she would be spending all that time with Harry wasn’t as upsetting as she’d expected.

“I don’t suppose you have any ideas on who those men are?”

He didn’t answer immediately, fixing her with a strange look that she couldn’t place.

“We will soon—for one of them, at least. You saved us a lot of trouble by casting that _sectumsempra_ spell. They were both polyjuiced, but that potion doesn’t alter internal structure, just external appearance, and there was a lot of blood for us to collect evidence from. But it takes a while to perform blood magic—ages, depending on how much you’ve got to work with—and we only have blood samples from one of them.”

“That’s better than nothing—“

“Yes,” he said, cutting her off. “But identifying a dark wizard and catching a dark wizard are two different things. It’ll be a month before we can confirm one of the attacker’s identities, and all we can do until then is look for further clues.”

Determination settled in her features, bringing with it the focused concentration she used to feel just before a Quidditch match. “So there’s a chance, then, that these men won’t just escape.”

“Definitely,” he replied.

Ginny excused herself shortly after that, retreating to the second floor to draw a bath. She had been too exhausted the night before and too groggy that morning to bother with one, but the idea that her almost rapist had touched her less than a day before was revolting. The steam from the running water filled the bathroom, enveloping her in a cloud of warmth. She lowered herself into the porcelain tub and sank underneath the surface.

\----

What followed were long, suffocating weeks at Grimmauld Place while the investigation continued.

Ginny got little accomplished. Every time she sat down to write her thoughts seemed to slip through her fingers. Normally she would have at least a few rough essays for her next book, or even a list of topics to research, but so far she had made little progress. Her brain felt sluggish and she found herself sleeping much more often than ever before. After nearly a month of feeling like the walking dead, she threw what remained of her dreamless sleep potion in the bin.

After a few days her body seemed to recognize the absence of the draught, and although she had endured the immediate effects of her attack rather well it became almost impossible for her to think of anything else. Harry usually went into the office for a few hours every day, but after ceasing her potion she hardly noticed his departures and returns. Her dreams became so horrific that she would stay up into the early hours of the morning, reading until she became too exhausted to fight sleep, only to slip back into reoccurring visions of her rape and murder.

She wandered the house in the late afternoons, rummaging for books in the library or revisiting old haunts from her stay so many summers ago. Ginny sometimes felt like her movements were strange and uncoordinated, like the area she took up in space didn’t exist.

Her family visited as often as they could, but they all had conventional jobs, except for her mum, who actually stopped by too often.

“I’m fine,” she repeated over and over to her relatives. “Just bored. I want things to get sorted out so I can go back to my life.”

No such luck.

Harry rarely commented on her deteriorating state. He rarely spoke to her at all, in fact, but that suited Ginny just fine. They had never gotten on that well, and despite his attractiveness and her boredom she never made plans to spend time with him (although she had considered seducing him once or twice). She preferred to lick her wounds in private instead of crawling to one of her brother’s mates for comfort.

One morning Harry came into her room and roughly shook her awake.

“Get out of bed,” he said, disregarding her rude protests. Ginny ignored him and pulled the covers over her head. Harry yanked the duvet down to the footboard, the cold air bringing her to full consciousness.

“I’m up, I’m up!” she said, flinging her hair out of her eyes. “Could you be any more annoying?”

Speaking over her, he said, “We’ve got an hour and a half before we have to be at the Ministry for the blood identification. Get ready. Breakfast is downstairs.”

“An hour and a half? Why did you wake me up so bloody early?”

Harry shrugged. “Figured you’d want time to get ready. Girls take a while.”

“Please,” she huffed. “I’m going to a meeting about nearly being raped and murdered, not the Yule Ball.”

She left him standing in her bedroom for the loo down the hall. After shutting the door to the bathroom, she admitted to herself that perhaps Harry wasn’t wrong. She might feel better about whatever the information revealed if she didn’t come off as the wreck she felt like.

Turning the knob for the hot water, she stepped into the spray and tried to sort herself out while steam filled the bathroom. After showering Ginny charmed herself dry and picked a black turtle-necked dress to wear to the meeting.

She’d read enough to know that the proceedings would go much more smoothly if she looked modest; her case had developed into high-profile news, and she wouldn’t put it past the _Daily Prophet_ to publish the outcome of the results. Ginny hadn’t kept up with the press coverage relating to her case, but she had seen her dossier grow in thickness over the past weeks. Harry clipped and saved every article relating to the crime committed against her, even editorial and opinion pieces. Maybe one day she’d get a chance to see them all.

Harry was waiting for her in the kitchen in his red and gray auror robes, frowning at the unopened paper on the table. With one glance she caught sight of the bold newsprint and the phrase “Weasley case” in the headline, along with a promotional picture she’d taken for her book.

“I can’t believe that made it above the fold,” Ginny said derisively. He looked at her with his infuriatingly neutral expression, like he was holding himself back.

At least some things never change, she thought, following Harry’s lead as he climbed in the fireplace.

With a whoosh and a sputter she landed in one of the fireplaces in the atrium at the Ministry for Magic. Just after she got her bearings Harry firmly took her arm, escorting her past a loosely congregated group of reporters and curious ministry employees before she had the chance to utter a word.

As they walked toward the lifts she asked under her breath, “They’re not publishing the identities of the criminals, are they?”

For once, his cool demeanor shifted. Harry squared his jaw, answering, “It’s public record. We can’t stop them.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped. “But once the public knows they’ll just find better ways to disguise themselves. These blokes could’ve been hiding in plain sight—“

“I know,” he agreed, jabbing the button for the lift. “That’s why we’ve been carrying on a preemptive investigation, just in case any of the people we suspected actually turn out to have ties to the perpetrators.”

She bit her lip, herself and Harry the only occupants in the lift. The cool, mechanical voice began to speak, announcing the levels and giving her a strong sense of déjà vu.

With a few levels to go, Harry looked at her, piercing her with his intensely green eyes.

“Ginny, if you feel like you need to leave at any time during this meeting, go ahead. I’m able to represent you and inform you afterwards—“

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, giving him a firm look. “I don’t anticipate having any problems listening to this.”

\----

“Ms. Weasly! Would you care to say anything about the identity of your almost-killer?”

“Mr. Potter, what is the Ministry going to do to catch these criminals?”

“Is it true that the two of you have become involved?”

Harry kept up an impassive front despite the personal nature of the reporters’ questions, steering her toward the fireplaces with a firm arm around her shoulder. Ginny threw a handful of floo powder into the fireplace without thinking, as if in a daze. She spoke her destination and concentrated on keeping her limbs close against her body, reeling against the out-of-control feeling of floo travel.

One name repeated itself in her mind over and over like an incantation. Miles Bletchley: her would-be murderer. She considered his name in frustration, feeling like she was missing a key piece of information, like she’d been about to say something only to forget it moments before.

Ginny was rummaging through the cabinets in the kitchen as Harry arrived. She searched for two water glasses as he clamored out of the grate, dusting them off with a tap from her wand. He shook his hair out of his eyes and brushed his robes off, taking her offered drink.

“Miles Bletchley. I know him from somewhere,” she said, gulping her water and standing in front of her normal seat, too fidgety to actually sit down.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you actually did. Ron and his team are pulling background information as we speak.”

They talked for close to thirty minutes, debating the information they’d gathered from the meeting and discussing her possible return home. Ginny was ready to go back to her flat and resume her life, but Harry disliked the idea. There were points of concession on both ends, and eventually they agreed to decide on the matter later, once more facts emerged from Ron’s investigation.

“I’ll see what Ron thinks about me going back home,” she said, crossing her arms.

“It doesn’t matter, at least not officially. I’m in charge of your protection, he’s investigating the perpetrators. It’s up to me on when you go home.”

“Spectacular,” she said, the fight slowly ebbing out of her.

A month ago she would have fought Harry tooth-and-nail on the point, even if her efforts seemed fruitless, but living with him since the attack had taught her the best ways to present ideas to him. He seemed to tolerate her sarcasm and direct questions as long as she kept her grumblings to a low volume, and Ginny did appreciate the frank way he explained things, allowing them a grudgingly useful form of communication

Sighing, she opened the door that led from the basement kitchen to the landing for the staircase. An unidentified noise caught her attention. She paused.

“Harry—“

A spell came soaring toward her from an unnatural angle, bouncing off the corners in the staircase and smashing into the kitchen. Ginny ducked out of the way, scrambling away from the door while many things happened simultaneously.

Harry snatched a saltshaker from the table and did some very fast magic, shoving it into her hand immediately afterward.

“That’ll activate in five seconds!” he shouted, bounding up the stairs after the intruder while she stood, frozen.

Clutching her wand in her sweaty grip, Ginny began to feel the tug in her stomach that signaled travel by portkey. Desperately, she had the urge to yell at Harry to be safe, but by the time she opened her mouth it was too late.


	3. Chapter 3

Ginny landed in the front parlor of a house, grateful that no one had been there to see her graceless recovery. It was unusual for the destination of a portkey to take her indoors, but if Harry had intended it that way she was unwilling to worry about it, despite the tight knot of anxiety in her stomach over the intruder.

She passed an ornate mirror hanging over a small table, avoiding the sight of her likely frazzled appearance. What she wanted most was to find a quiet room to lie down, but without the details on where she was exactly it felt foolish to let herself fall asleep when Harry was chasing after an intruder (who was most likely her attempted murderer) and she was unprotected.

From the doorway of the lounge she took in a comfortable-looking couch, a fireplace, and several covered windows, noticing that the residence was largely devoid of any personal effects. There were no family photos on the mantle, and she didn’t so much as find a magazine or a used teacup in the whole place.

It was before noon but she was already drowsy, and the thought of staying up to wait for Harry (possibly for hours) didn’t seem appealing. Once Ginny was seated she wondered if the fireplace had a floo connection—not because she wanted to leave, but it would be a major security flaw if Harry had sent her to a house that could be easily accessed.

 _Don’t be silly, I’m sure he already thought of that_ , she told herself, stretching her legs out on the cushions. A clock ticked in another room, the rhythmic noise making it harder for her to stay awake. She drifted off still wondering about Harry and Miles Bletchley, thinking back to her days at school to try and remember if she’d met anyone with that name. Eventually her breathing evened out and her thoughts became less and less connected, the world dimming in her ears.

\----

Several hours later Ginny was being gently woken up, a warm hand on her shoulder.

“Miles Bletchley is a receptionist,” she said, quickly sitting up, ignoring the tangled locks of hair that had fallen in her eyes. “He works for my publisher. Every time I went into the office he escorted me to see my editor. I’d forgotten about him.”

Harry sat next to her on the couch, looking much less put together than when she’d seen him this morning. He ran a hand through his impossibly mused hair, taking in her information.

“Ron told me. That’s who broke in this morning. Ginny, I’m sorry to tell you this but he got away. He broke through a window and disapparated. I don’t think he realized that you weren’t alone until it was too late to slink out quietly.”

Somehow this news didn’t surprise Ginny. “I don’t understand this,” she said, making a flippant gesture. “I don’t understand Smith, or Bletchley, or whoever it is that’s paying them to do all of this.”

It must have been much later than she had initially thought, because a dark line of shadow had shifted across the hardwood floor, indicating late afternoon. The ticking clock in the next room sounded louder than normal in the silence.

“I wonder if he’s being paid at all,” Harry said, thinking out loud. “He might just be on his own, with the exception of a few conspirators. With the way this has been carried out I wouldn’t expect it to be the work of a team.”

“That doesn’t make sense either,” she said, staring moodily into the empty fireplace. “I don’t have the right brain for detective work.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth, but he was too engrossed to respond.

Ginny tucked her legs underneath her while a tear formed in her stockings. “It just kills me that I’ve had my life taken over because I wrote something people didn’t like,” she said, her frustration plainly evident.

“That’s not true, people loved what you wrote,” he said, coming to her defense. “This happened because one crazy bloke couldn’t handle a woman making more than he’ll probably see in a lifetime off anti-pureblood ideas. He’s an idiot. Don’t think that any of this is your fault.”

Warmth tingled through her at Harry’s words, more than just a blush on her cheeks or a rush of embarrassment at the back of her neck. She smiled and looked at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in the strong line of his jaw and his dark, impossibly messy hair. In lieu of responding Ginny pressed her leg against his, feeling the warmth of his body through her nylons.

Brazenly, she took his hand in her own, grazing her finger over the inside of his palm in a simple pattern. The first time she held hands with Theo he had been nervous and clammy, but Harry had soft, warm skin and long fingers.

He gave a small exhale of breath, so quiet she barely caught it, but that sound was all she needed to push forward.

Ginny leaned over and kissed him, her dark red hair forming a curtain around their faces. He sighed and opened his mouth to her, cupping her face as she pulled his lower lip between her teeth. She released his hand and moved it to her thigh, heat pooling beneath her skin like a pot set to boil.

 _I’m kissing Harry after so long_ , she thought, dimly flashing back to all those miserable weeks she’d spent alone in the early hours of the morning, wishing that he’d crawl in her bed and keep her company. It was mad, how her idea of him had changed. Only a few months ago Ginny had maintained the belief about Harry Potter that she’d had the entire time he’d been a friend of Ron’s—that he may or may not be a great wizard, but that his influence over magical Britain wasn’t healthy, and that it was so typical that the savior of the wizarding world was a man.

Guiltily, Ginny realized she’d been too caught up in who Harry was as a public figure to bother getting to know him as a person, and she hadn’t been open-minded enough to put her ideas about his position aside.

The truth was almost too much for her to acknowledge with a straight face. Judging from how he’d acted yesterday and earlier that morning, he thought of her as a capable witch and a well-liked author. Not once had he treated her like Ron’s kid sister or a silly writer who wasn’t worth his time. She owed him at least the same treatment.

Harry slid his hand from its position on her thigh over to her bum. He pulled her into his lap and she removed his glasses, moving her hands to the front of his Oxford shirt and deftly undoing the buttons.

He moaned against her touch, energy rushing from her fingertips to that space of tingling excitement in her abdomen. Without his glasses he looked younger and more like the cheeky teenager she’d grown up knowing, his eyes halfway closed and painfully green. Ginny placed his warm hand over her breast and rocked her hips, sending a jolt of pleasure between her legs

This was apparently too much for him. “I can’t—“

“Don’t say it,” she ordered, looking him straight in the eye. “You can and you want to. I know you do.”

“I’m absolutely positive that I could loose my job for this,” he said, but the sentiment didn’t stop him from sighing and arching his hips while she teasingly rubbed against him.

“So we won’t tell anyone,” Ginny explained, her small hands exploring his chest. She was tired of being in a position of uneven power where he was concerned, and it satisfied her immensely when he gave a soft, wanton moan as she kissed his neck and teased his nipples.

“C’mon Harry,” she said, kissing along his jaw while he touched her body in earnest. “Aren’t you brave enough to fuck me?”

Her words had created a turning point. Harry slid his hands under her bum and picked her up with surprising ease. She wrapped her legs around his lean, wiry frame and let herself be carried to a bedroom she hadn’t explored, her pulse sending shockwaves through her extremities. Each brush of his skin against hers left a burning, sensitive feeling in her limbs.

He positioned her on the bed, shrugging off his half-removed button-down while she made quick work of her nylons and high-collared dress. Wearing only her bra and knickers, Ginny approached him and deliberately removed his belt, taking in the subtle details of his muscled upper body. He had a line of downy black hair just above the waistband of his trousers, pronounced hipbones, and a sinewy look to his arms that she loved.

Harry pulled her body flush against his, their skin connecting in a soft, delicious way, and she leaned back while he kissed her chest and unhooked her bra. She tugged his trousers past his hips and he stepped out of them, revealing black boxers that didn’t hide his reaction to her.

“Lay down,” she said, steering him toward the neatly made bed.

Ginny climbed on top of him and straddled his body. He touched her breasts and she watched the shift in his features as she rubbed herself against his erection, noting the pace of his breathing and the increased pressure of his hands as they steadied her hips. He held his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes squinted shut while she rocked her hips in imitation of what they were about to do. Harry turned his head to the side, focusing on the feeling of her sex through their remaining clothes, leaning into her touch as she raked her fingers through his hair.

The increased friction gave her a loose, heady feeling but she steeled herself from getting too caught up in what Harry was doing to her. She leaned away from him to remove her knickers, letting him appreciatively run his hand over her naked hip while she inched his boxers down.

Finally, she had something she could do just as well as him, something that wouldn’t earn her a period of cool indifference or a reluctant explanation. Harry had never blatantly acted like she wasn’t able to understand the seriousness of the threat against her life, but she knew what he thought, and it was satisfying to be respected by him—even if it was just on a sexual level.

He didn’t think she was mature enough to understand almost being murdered, but he unquestionably considered her a woman.

 _He’ll just have to learn_ , she decided.

Ginny angled her naked body over his, anticipating the rush of being filled by another person. She leaned on his upper body while she positioned him just inside of her, relishing the tight, slick feeling as he entered her.

“Fuck, Gin,” Harry swore, adjusting his hips while she slowly buried him inside of her.

She steadied one of her hands against his chest and used the other to pinch one of her nipples, rocking against his hips and keeping him firmly in place. It was her turn to show him what she was really like.

\----

They slept until the early hours of the morning, a reprieve from the chaos surrounding the current search for Bletchley and his accomplices. Ron would be stopping by sometime to inform them on the department’s progress, but she didn’t know when to expect him. Essentially, they were stuck at the safe house until further notice, with all the anxiety of an ongoing attempted murder fueling their emotions. Or that was her excuse, anyway.

Ginny was aware that what she had initialed between Harry and herself was inappropriate, but there was no law that made it illegal, and sleeping with him had been more than enjoyable.

After nearly being raped by an anonymous man in her own home she had felt violated, disgusted, and afraid of men in general, but after weeks of brooding on these emotions Ginny felt that she had partially figured them out.

She hadn’t felt even a trace of fear when she’d slept with Harry. When Bletchley and his accomplice had been threatening her they had been in total control, she had literally been at their mercy the entire time of the assault, but from the moment she climbed in Harry’s lap the reins had been in her hands. He had voluntarily accepted her direction—and enjoyed it, if what she’d seen had been correct. Every time she restricted his movements or guided his hand to touch her in a certain way he’d responded more strongly, kissing her neck and moaning into her shoulder that she could boss him around any time she wanted.

Slowly, his behavior from the past few months began to make more sense. Every time they’d had a disagreement he’d shied away from actually fighting with her, deciding instead to let her be the one to get upset, to let her be the one to hang her emotions out to dry. She’d seen him in fights with other boys in the past, or on the Quidditch pitch—Harry never seemed to walk away from a confrontation if it was presented to him—which was why his frosty demeanor had frustrated her for weeks. Ginny never understood his passive-aggressive attitude toward her until now.

She had never bothered to pay attention to his relationships with other women, so it wasn’t obvious to her at first. He wasn’t underestimating her, he was attracted to her. He wanted her to find fault with his decisions, to challenge him during discussions instead of offering her whole life on a platter like every other witch in England.

Ginny leaned over Harry’s sleeping body and plucked his pack of fags from the nightstand, whispering the incantation that would light the end. She’d started smoking a few months after completing her position with the Harpies and she quit at her family’s insistence just before the release of her book. Harry, however, had started smoking at the age of seventeen and never given it up, despite her mother’s pleading.

Her movements and the smell of smoke must have woken him up, because he rolled over and looked at her with sleepy eyes.

“Thief.”

“Have one,” Ginny said, ignoring the fact that they didn’t belong to her.

He lit his own and sat up next to her, pulling her closer to him under the duvet. She leaned into him and slid down against the pillows.

“Graham Pritchard,” Ginny said, smoke escaping from her mouth. “He was two years younger than me—in Slytherin. He’s five years younger than Bletchley. They’re half-brothers.”

Harry instantly seemed more aware. “You’re sure? I don’t remember him, but that’s no surprise. He would have been three years younger than me.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Dumbledore made me a prefect before Snape was headmaster. I caught Pritchard cursing Demelza and told him off the year the Carrows were at the school. I just assumed that they were having as much of a negative effect on the other students as they were on the Gryffindors. I made light of what he’d done to Demelza and figured he must be as confused and upset as everyone else, but what if I missed something there?”

Harry got out of the bed without putting on any clothes and fished around at the writing table in the corner of the room. He scribbled something on a scrap of parchment and placed it inside a small stone basin that she’d hadn’t noticed before. Harry tapped it with his wand and the message disappeared in a burst of fire.

“Owls would be a give away,” he said, retreating back to the warm, empty space in bed next to Ginny. “I wrote down Pritchard’s name and his connection to Bletchley. It was sent straight to Ron’s office.”

She didn’t say anything, realizing that there was no way for Harry to know ahead of time if her idea would prove useful. Vanishing the last of her fag, she leaned over and kissed him on the jaw, oscillating between lust and worry.

\----

Harry rolled over next to her, shoving his spiky black head under the pillow to shield himself from the encroaching sunrise. Ginny slowly opened her eyes and watched the muscled rise and fall of his chest, taking in the soft, downy hair at the nape of his neck, the reddish-brown hue of his nipples, the blossoming outline of a phoenix tattooed on the back of his shoulder.

She inched closer to him and reached for the sharp curve of his hip, pulling her body flush against his. Harry made a quiet, contented sound in his sleep, which she took as an invitation for further activity.

But Ginny hesitated for a moment—would he mind that she was touching him like this? They hadn’t discussed anything beyond the next five minutes, but she doubted he would kick her out of bed for attempting a morning hand-job.

Her memories of the night before solidified her decision; she lightly brushed her hand over his skin, slipping beneath his waist and feeling his half-hard prick. Immediately his breathing hitched. It was so arousing to watch him like this, asleep and vulnerable but still responsive to her touch. She lightly pulled at the foreskin, moving her hand in a sliding motion and adjusting one of his legs so it fell between hers, pressing against her clit. Reaching to cup her own breast, she closed her eyes and concentrated on her own body, getting so absorbed that she nearly jumped when Harry sleepily addressed her.

“Merlin, Ginny,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering open. “Let me touch you.”

“Get on top of me,” she said, pulling him over her body and wrapping her legs around his waist. She closed her eyes as she sighed into his shoulder.

\----

“GIN! HARRY—WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU?”

Ginny panicked and jerked away from Harry as quickly as possible, yanking down the hem of her dress and standing up to greet Ron, who had so boisterously arrived.

Just a few seconds ago Harry’s hand had been between her legs, teasing her while they snogged and panted on the couch like a couple of teenagers, but all of her arousal had evaporated the moment she heard her brother’s voice.

“We got him—Pritchard and Bletchley!” Ron said, bursting into the room. “As soon as we showed up at Pritchard’s to make the arrest he confessed and told us where to find Bletchley. They’ve just brought him in as well.”

“Excellent,” Harry said, thumping Ron on the back. “Have you heard anything on Smith?”

“Yeah. Bugger had just heard some rumors from one of Bletchley’s coworkers.”

Ginny disrupted their conversation by giving Ron a tight hug, thanking her brother for everything he’d done for her.

“Don’t thank me,” he said sheepishly. “You’re the one who made the connection, Gin. Without your tip we wouldn’t have either of them at the holding center.”

Suddenly feeling very emotional, she ignored the stinging sensation in her eyes and the slight blur around the edges of her vision.

“Don’t be stupid,” she sniffed, pretending to coincidentally have something in her eye. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the two of you.”

She hugged Ron again and pulled Harry in as well, hiding her tears in the crook of Harry’s arm while her brother patted her on the back and mentioned something about how she could go back to just being plain old Ginny Weasley again.

 _Thank Merlin_ , she thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final installment to my piece for harry_submits. It's short, but hopefully it'll give closure to everything that's happened so far. This was probably one of my favorite pieces I've ever written, so it makes me happy to see that other people have been enjoying it as well. Thanks to A, my beta, and everyone that left comments : )

_The Daily Prophet, News section, page 1—_

> Crimes Committed Against Weasley Go to Trial
> 
> by Susan Bones  
>  _Staff Writer_
> 
>  
> 
> Miles Bletchley and Graham Pritchard stand trial today for the successful torture and attempted rape and murder of popular author and former Hollyhead Harpie Ginevra Weasley, known for her book “A Culture of Separation” and her work in various newspapers and magazines.
> 
> The investigation that led to the capture of Bletchley and Pritchard was led by auror Ronald Weasley, Ginevra Weasley’s brother, who only recently announced his resignation from the auror corps following the completion of the trial against Bletchley and Pritchard (see WHEEZES, pg 8).
> 
> Auror Harry Potter was in charge of Ginevra Weasley’s personal protection during the search for the perpetrators. Potter aided the investigative team by employing a recently developed form of blood magic that allowed the members of the auror corps to identify the otherwise unknown perpetrators. More information on this technique will become available in the coming weeks with the publication of Potter’s first academic text.
> 
> The prosecution consists of wizengamot members . . . 

Ginny turned away from the Prophet and the candid picture of herself in muggle London accompanied by a dark-haired man, draining the rest of her morning tea and setting her cup in the sink. It hadn’t been a surprise to see an article about today’s trial, it was legitimate news, whether she wanted to read about it or not, but the piece accompanying it (which included the grainy photograph) was hardly newsworthy. 

Susan’s article contained a jump to the rest of the story several pages later, with the other article concerning her right next to it, this time speculating on who the man she was holding hands with in the photograph was. Even with magic the image wasn’t the best quality, and because the man in question was wearing dark sunglasses it was difficult for the author of the article to come to any real conclusions. 

But, Ginny checked the byline, Marietta Edgecombe, whom she’d never liked, went on to state, “many close to Weasley have hinted at a close relationship between the author and Harry Potter, the auror assigned to her protection, who also happens to match the general appearance of the man in the photograph.” 

The phrase “close relationship” could mean any number of things, Ginny decided, but Edgecombe’s implication was clear enough. She suddenly had little desire to finish reading the morning paper. 

_That story hardly even qualifies as a feature_ , Ginny thought, unimpressed with Edgecombe’s scoop. _They barely did any interviews. It’s just a silly piece on a person of interest._

She entered her living room just as Harry was climbing out of her fireplace in his full auror attire, shined black boots and all. 

“Are you ready to head to the Ministry?” he asked, adjusting his glasses. 

He didn’t look well, she thought. Like he could use a good night’s sleep, or perhaps several nights’ worth, but her pulse quickened all the same. 

“Sure,” she said, approaching the fireplace. He let her lead the way. 

\---- 

Their arrival in the Atrium was more anticipated than for her meeting. Once again, Harry escorted her through the thick crowd of people, this time with the increased security of several other members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement waiting in the wings. 

Reporters shouted out questions at such a rate that she couldn’t decipher them, instead choosing to follow Harry’s lead toward the lifts, his arm politely held at the small of her back. 

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief as the doors to the lift closed and shut out the sound and turmoil from the ground level. While the artificial female voice began to speak, she gathered the courage that was supposedly part of her character and turned toward Harry, her jaw set. 

“It’s not your fault,” Ginny said, uttering her first complete sentence since he’d tumbled through her floo. “Really. I’m sorry for not responding to your owls.” 

“It’s okay. I understand.” 

Her emotions volleyed for attention as she chose her words, the back of her neck suddenly feeling very hot. “But you don’t. This has nothing to do with all of this rubbish,” she explained, gesturing spasmodically. “It has nothing to do with the trial. It’s just me not knowing how to let anybody in.” 

As usual, she thought, sticking close to Harry as the doors to the lift opened and they briskly walked toward the courtroom. 

He didn’t respond to the claim about her emotions that she’d just dangled in front of him, instead refusing to meet her eye. She resisted the uncharacteristic urge to babble about her reasons for coldly dumping him. 

During the immediate weeks after the arrests Harry and Ginny had continued seeing each other, meeting up several times a week to have dinner together and shag, usually culminating in spending the night with one another. She’d never enjoyed sex with another partner as much as she enjoyed it with Harry, and initially she’d had no problems with the pattern they’d set—it was wonderful to be able to work whenever she wanted and go days without having to check in on each other like a typical boyfriend and girlfriend—but after a month and a half of seeing each other casually Ginny had realized just how much she enjoyed being with Harry. 

Too much, it turned out. 

She’d started avoiding him at all costs: canceling their plans with claims of too much work, showing up to dates and leaving halfway through because she supposedly felt under the weather, lying about nonexistent visits with Fleur or her mum that had tired her out too much to see him. One time she’d even hidden in her office while he tried to floo call her. 

Eventually Harry had sent her a couple of letters, saying that he was sorry if he’d pushed her to do things she wasn’t ready for so soon after what happened to her in autumn, that he would leave her alone unless it was for official Ministry business if that’s what she wanted. 

Ginny hadn’t replied to that letter either. 

The corridor leading up to the courtroom was blessedly empty. Only those involved in the trial were permitted to access the area. When they had almost neared the door Harry grabbed her wrist and pulled them into an empty alcove, sending a spark of awareness from where his hand had touched her. 

“Can we talk?” he asked, his eyes suddenly so clear and full of emotion that it made her heart swell. “Later, I mean.” 

She felt a streak of anticipation rumble through her at the idea of being alone with him again. “Yes.” Her mouth was dry; she licked her lips. “If I try to worm out of it you can put me into custody.” 

Harry gave her a half-smile that made her feel inexplicably less worried. “If only that were binding.” 

He reached down and took her hand, much smaller than his own, tracing a pattern against the inside of her palm that made her shiver. Ginny kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand before entering the courtroom, a promise hanging between them. 

**End**


End file.
